Hungry For Your Touch
by Ursula4x
Summary: Neal is punished by being put in the hole for breaking the light. Peter to the rescue. This is slash. Sorry that I forgot to mark it as preslash. See Ursula, see slash.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Hungry for Your Touch

Author: Ursula  
Rating: rating: M

Genre and/or Pairing: Peter/Neal Hurt Comfort

Notes: Yeah, over shopping for stories and ideas at the Kink Memo. Prompt was Neal yearning for touch after prison

Also the hole and 'meatloaf' which was about as wholesome as dog food were still being used fifteen years ago. I have a friend who made it through nearly a year in the hole. He's kind of not crazy.

Spoilers: Pilot

Warnings: Hurt and humiliation

Summary: Neal is punished for breaking the light and for his escape.

1. Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

In the wake of Peter Burke's refusal to take up Neal's offer to work for him, catching his own kind in exchange for the limited freedom of a tracker, Neal felt justified in his brief outburst of temper. He certainly did not intend to break his light and what happened next was out of proportion to a broken light. Breaking it had been an accident, but Neal knew it was useless to protest when the guards showed up, malicious expressions on their faces. Except for Tommy, who was round, soft spoken, and kindly. His favorite guard stood to the side shaking his head, but unable to stand up to the brotherhood of jailors.

Neal shed his coverall as they directed and walked into the cell that wasn't suppose to exist anymore, the one with nothing but an open toilet and a spigot above. No bed, no covers, his naked, lean body shivering and shaking in the dark.

Huddled around himself, Neal tried to find some comfort, tried to imagine Kate, but could only see her walking away. "Goodbye, it's been real."

Moz would hate to see Neal like this. Neal couldn't subject him to this even in his fantasies.

His shoulder felt invisible warmth. Peter touched him as he said no, as he walked away. Neal remembered the firm clasp on his shoulder as Peter headed for the door. He willed Peter to turn back, to hug him.

You dreamed about fucking, but you could get fucked here. It was being touched that Neal missed, the casual stroke of his arm, the playful teases that Kate would offer, hugs from his friends, everyone knew how physical Neal was and everyone loved to pet him and reflect in the light of his happiness. Moz touched him as much as he dared, not that Neal minded, but Moz always felt uncomfortable with his feelings, so stiff and proper for someone who aspired to rebellion.

Some of the guards were kind, but they won't touch Neal. It's too easy to be accused of something. Neal won't take the risk with his fellow inmates; there's no one here that he wanted sexually and accepting a touch was as good as saying fuck me.

Peter Burke though. Peter, he wanted, had always wanted from almost the first time he had seen him.

Curled around himself, Neal thought of jerking off to the memory of Peter's touch, but the steady light of the security camera reminded him why he would not. It was dark and cold, but the camera was still an unblinking, invasive eye meant to catch him in case he broke and tried to escape the only way possible. Neal was not the suicidal type. He would not do it. They could not push him that far, but the physical horror of it drove him deep into his mind, away from the stench of his body, the bruises on his hands, the abrasions on his knuckles. Away from his hunger and weariness.

The days and night were one. Sleep started to elude him. Neal spent hours tracing the walls, feeling every inch of them, so few feet. The cell was a coffin for a living man. Neal circled his cage until he could not stand it. His hands pressed to his temples and he spun like a child, not in play, but in the rocking twisting of an autistic child, locked in the hell of a damaged brain. Neal had a foster brother like that. He would whirl and whirl until he would suddenly beat on the walls until they had to medicate him. Neal twirled until he fell down in the darkness, feeling sick. His heart pounded. He lay on the floor and he could barely keep from sobbing.

There was food at intervals. They called it meatloaf, but it was a dense, tasteless mix of protein, starch, and vegetables mashed into a lumpy square. It met nutritional requirements if you ate it. It was pushed through the slot that would not open from Neal's side. He would lay there, waiting, not for the food, but for the brief light, for the chance of catching the brief warmth of a guard's hand. He never succeeded in grabbing flesh though. They shoved the flimsy cardboard tray through with the tip of their bully sticks. There was no spoon, nothing to eat with. Just the gelatinous clammy surface and the firmer compound of whatever the hell they put in the meat loaf beneath. Neal could not eat it much of it. Most of the time when he tried and forced it down, he gagged on it, threw up, barely making it to the toilet bowl.

If the cell was illegal, it was even more so beyond the scope of humane punishment to isolate a human being for more than a week. Men went mad in here. Neal had seen one guy, a Pima Indian with a scar that bifurcated his broad, brown face, his eyes like black wounds on his rugged face. They said he had done almost a year in the hole twice in his life sentence. They said he was the only man they could not break. Neal was hardly that strong, that indifferent. He was not a weak person, but he loved people, always had. He could stand being alone, liked it when he was thinking or creating, but he was used to being stroked, admired, caressed. He needed it.

OooOooO

Neal had stopped moving, stopped pacing the cell. He locked himself into dreams. He touched the area of his shoulder that Peter Burke had grasped, trying to make it into the agent's hand. He wrote the script differently each time he engaged the dream. Sometimes the guard left and Peter bent him over the table and fucked him. Sometimes Peter only held him, embraced him, had low comforting words that Neal strained to hear.

The sweetness of the gentle tones took a strident tone. "Oh, Christ, what the hell have they done to you? Come on, Caffrey, snap out of it. Come on, look at me. I'm going to get you out. Make that deal. Open your eyes."

Fretfully, Neal curled tighter. "You're supposed to say it nice. You're supposed to hug me."

"Hug you?" Peter said. "Caffrey, it's Burke."

"No, it's never you. It's never anyone. Never. Never."

"Jesus, it is me. Look, I'm right here. I'm getting you out of this hell hole right now and as soon as they can clean you up and get some real food into you, I'm going to have you sign our agreement and you are going to start putting that giant brain of yours to work," Peter said.

Rubbing the grunge from his eyes, Neal saw it was Peter. It wasn't another dream since he would hardly have made it a fantasy where Neal was naked, filthy, mouth dry, and stomach too shrunken to even know it needed food.

"Peter?"

"Yeah, me, do you think you can stand and walk out with some help?" Peter asked.

"Help me," Neal said, as he reached for Peter.

Peter was solid, warm, real. Neal stroked the rough fabric of Peter's suit, wished he could take it off the agent, strip off the durable white shirt, touch the broad and well muscled chest, feel the living, responsive flesh beneath.

"Up," Peter said.

The cell was lit now, even smaller than Neal remembered. There was dish of the 'meatloaf'. Neal didn't remember smearing it on the floor, trying to paint in the dark. He didn't remember washing his hands, but they were clean of the stuff. He started to shake and his legs were going out.

"Here. Wrap this around you," Peter said.

It was a blanket to cover his nakedness. Neal fumbled with it until Peter made an exasperated sound and wrapped it around him.

"No," Peter said. "Don't let yourself give up now. Walk with me. You want to show them that they did not break you? Hold your head up. Hold it up for me."

Peter's smile fed Neal strength, mainlined it to him. He nodded, but he clung hard to Peter's strong arm.

"How long? How long were you in there?" Peter asked. He was angry and Neal flinched, but then he realized that it was not aimed at him.

"It was the night after you said 'no'," Neal replied in a voice that was not his own, a rusty grate of a voice.

"Shit, three weeks? In the dark, in that cage for three weeks?" Peter said.

"How did you know?" Neal said.

Peter leaned closer to whisper, "A guard named Bobby got my number and called me. We have him protected under the whistle blower act."

Neal nodded. Peter's breath smelled of mouthwash and coffee. He sucked it into his lungs as if he could feed on that too.

The infirmary was so far away. So many doors. Slam. Clank. Slam. Clank. It was soul killing music.

"You won't leave me here?" Neal asked.

"Just long enough to fax the documents to my boss once you sign. It won't take long and I have people to watch over you."

Neal could barely stand up in the shower, but he leaned on the wall, scrubbed at himself with one hand. He threw up at his own stench and felt terrible that he had inflicted it on Peter. He tried to scrub at his foul teeth, to wash the nastiness away. When he was finished with his shower, one of the trustees shaved him. It was Hershel, the timid cooker of books. "You're going to be okay, kid. You're going to be fine."

The soft, pallid hands that moved over Neal's face were precious. Tears flowed down his face. "It's all over," Hershel reassured. "easy now. Here, let me help you with your hair."

"I'll take care of it," Peter said.

Any touch would have been paradise, but now it was Peter Burke, the Galahad of his every fantasy in that coffin that testified to man's ingenuity at torment. Neal's hair grew nerve endings as Peter combed it for him. He reached out, touching Peter's face, invoking a puzzled, pitying smile. "You okay?"

Peter let Neal stroke his face for possibly thirty seconds before guiding the hand away. "It's Peter Burke, remember."

"I know," Neal said. His sight was dim and he kept blinking in all the blinding light. He had spent three weeks in darkness. Peter's face was huge in his remaining vision, filling the room. This was how an infant saw. This was how Neal saw Peter who was the midwife to Neal's return to life. He was ushered back into the world by his strange, brilliant, compassionate pursuer.

"You ready to sign now?" Peter said as he helped Neal put on the slacks and tee shirt he had last worn to escape. Looking around at angry guards, Peter enunciated, "Find him a fucking coat. He can't go outside like this. Where's that soup? Come on. Move it."

This was right, making sense. Peter was in charge. The world revolved around him.

Neal signed and Peter looked at the document. He said, "You understand, this is one last chance. I'm crazy to do this, but after this, after what they did to you, I have to take this risk."

Neal understood. He had always been Peter's captive. The only one who could catch him. The only one who could see him. The one who touched him.

OooOooO

A few hours later, his strong body already recovering from the abuse, but still shaky, Neal walked out the door, grinning at Peter waiting. Wanting to run to him.

"Let's see it," Peter demanded.

Neal lifted his trouser leg, showing the intimate reminder of his bondage. He wished Peter would ask for more. Strip him. Touch him.

But no, Neal slid in beside Peter, fumbled with the belt until Peter huffed a sigh and reached around him to fasten it for him. Neal leaned into the sturdy strength and took a deep breath of Peter's hair, some faintly spicy shampoo. He wanted to rub his face against the fine tendrils, but held back barely.

Peter drove away with Neal. Neal was content to watch him, his hand near enough to feel Peter's warmth.

"You should get some sleep," Peter said.

"Later," Neal agreed.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked, reaching over to touch Neal's shoulder when they were stopped at a long light.

Shining, Neal could feel the light of his smile illuminating the car. "I will be."

Tbc maybe


	2. Road Stop

Road Stop

Along the way, they had to stop twice. Once Neal felt ill and then did lose the soup that he had eaten. Peter had to buy him a tiny toothbrush and toothpaste kit at a gas station before he would stop fussing. The first thing Peter noticed was that Neal didn't want to be left alone. He wouldn't even shut the door to the stall when he was in it. He kept walking so close to Peter that Peter finally moved him around front when they walked, guiding him where he wanted with small touches on his back. Which for some reason pleased Peter very much and seemed to reassure Neal very well.

The second stop was to try another bowl of soup. Neal slid into the booth and Peter naturally moved to sit across. Neal said, "No, please, here, sit here." He patted the seat next to him. Peter paused in the middle of making a sarcastic remark, tilted his head to study Neal whose eyes were turned up at him, blinking the way they had when Peter had caught him the second time. Not quite in tears, but eyes glossy and almost ready to shed them.

The first time Peter caught Neal; Neal had been all charm, unafraid, flirtatious and outrageous. Prison had changed him, quieted him. Having his girlfriend dump him must have come as a shock also. Peter knew that Kate was stormy and had left Neal more than once, sometimes for not leaving his life of crime and other times because he tried to go straight. Girl did not know what she wanted!

The second time Peter caught Neal, his quarry was run to ground, not by Peter, but by the shock of realizing he had thrown away another four years of his life and had missed Kate by three days. Neal didn't even try to run. He had been still and lifeless before something in Peter's manner evoked the humor that Peter remembered from the first pursuit. Peter had seen the blinking eyes and had cringed. He couldn't handle tears, not in women, not in men. He was glad and confused when Neal had started talking about his suit, teasing him as if they were old friends.

"Don't," Peter started to say then just slid next to Neal. Neal moved over to sit so closely that Peter could feel how warm he was. Way too warm. Peter clamped a hand over Neal's forehead and was reasonably sure that Neal was running a fever.

Peter had been looking forward to Neal's response to the dirty, cheap fleabag hotel he had found for him. Now it was hardly amusing.

The waitress came over. Peter ordered a sandwich and pie for himself. Ginger ale and soup for Neal.

Neal didn't even protest Peter's not asking him. He was too docile.

It was like thinking you are getting a very cool toy and finding out someone had played with it before and broken it. Peter sighed and said, "Sit. I have a call to make."

"I don't mind," Neal said. "Just make it here."

"You're not alone," Peter said, directing his own gaze at the diner which held if not a crowd, a substantial number of filled booths. "I have to call my wife."

"Okay," Neal said, but he played with his silverware nervously.

"Wait," Peter said. He went to the waitress and asked for crackers for his friend then on a whimsy, for some of the crayons that were given to amuse restless children which was a pretty good description of Neal at this moment.

The crayons got Peter a lifted brow, but Neal said, "I'll draw you a pretty picture for your refrigerator."

"You do that," Peter said, glad to have invoked some spirit.

He had never wanted Neal broken, just straightened out, stopped. It was his job after all.

Outside the cafe, Peter called El, trepidation flavoring his words. El didn't even hesitate. She said, "I'd just as well have the real thing sitting at my table as have him haunting you and keeping you up at night. Bring him."

Peter next called Hughes, his supervisor and friend, whom he had talked into agreeing to give Neal a chance. "It's Peter Burke. No, no problem, not exactly, but I was thinking about your advice. No, sir, I don't want to back out of the agreement. I have had second thoughts about the hotel. You were right about keeping him where I will have a closer eye on him, at least until I see how this works. My wife agrees so if we can have the perimeter reset to my house."

With Hughes' agreement, Peter walked back into the cafe where Neal sat finishing a crayon picture on the back of the kid's menu. Despite the limited medium, it was a good sketch of Peter. Peter looked at the cartoon like drawing and smiled. "I always said you were talented. It was a waste, Neal."

"It was my life," Neal said. "Things didn't work out the way I planned. Obviously."

"What made you think I would go for this crazy scheme?" Peter said.

"I know you," Neal said. "You are damn ruthless when you are chasing someone, but you're gentle enough when you catch them. I could tell you worried about me. You kept giving me advice about how to do my time without messing up or getting hurt. I took most of it and it worked."

"You were such a crazy kid," Peter said, wishing his tone was less fond. "Not a hardened criminal. You didn't want to hurt anyone. You didn't even swear at my team. I remember you thanking Jones for getting you a drink of water and me for putting a blanket over you when we were waiting for the plane."

"Yeah, that was a long time we spent waiting in that terminal," Neal said. "I couldn't believe that our flight was delayed. I tried to stay awake, tried to fill my memories with the world from which I was going to be locked away for who knew how many years. I was so tired though. You were on my tail constantly those last few weeks. I yawned and I nodded. You kept telling me just to get some sleep."

"And when you finally gave in, your head fell against my shoulder when you went out and Jones had the nerve to laugh at me," Peter remembered. He smiled. Neal was the only prisoner he ever recalled taking a nap in route to his arraignment.

The food arrived and Peter checked his sandwich. He didn't like his roast beef too rare and he liked his horseradish coarse ground, not the smooth homogenized substitute too many restaurants served.

Neal still had no complaints about his food. He sipped the ginger ale slowly and stirred his soup long before he even tried a spoonful.

"Eat," Peter directed. "I'm pretty sure you just ate too fast the first time."

"I wish I was that sure," Neal said. "Not feeling so well."

"I know," Peter said.

"Where am I going to stay?" Neal asked.

"I'm taking you to my house. I have a guest room," Peter said.

"Your wife is okay with that?" Neal asked.

"She knows you're harmless," Peter said.

"You make me sound like a neutered lap dog," Neal complained.

"No, I am making you sound like the one criminal I ever arrested I would risk taking to my home. Not that I like it."

"Then why?" Neal said.

"Because, let's be real about this. You are in no shape to be on your own," Peter said. "I'm taking you home to give you a chance to get your head together, but it has to be fast and I can't give you any slack, Neal. You have to help me catch the ghost."

"I will," Neal said. He started to eat cautiously as if the soup might bite him back. He stopped after a few bites and sipped more ginger ale and crumbled a cracker in the bowl. "I know that I'm not myself, Peter. I never was in the hole before. I obeyed the rules. I wanted to get out as soon as I could. I was polite, helpful, and avoided confrontations. I mostly kept to myself, studying, reading."

The spoon was trembling in Neal's hand too hard for Neal to eat. He set it down, caught one hand in the other. "Do you think they broke me? I don't want to be like this, needy, frightened, clingy. This is not me, Peter."

"Let's give it a few days," Peter said. "Just don't..."

Not wanting to hurt Neal more than he already was hurt, Peter said, "My wife, Elizabeth is the kindest person I know. I don't want her to get attached to you. That's part of the reason I intended to bring you to a hotel."

"A hotel would be okay, Peter," Neal said.

"Not this one," Peter said. What seemed a kind of bitter joke, a comeuppance of sorts, was no longer funny at all. "It was a roach motel, Neal. I don't know what I was thinking. Hughes didn't authorize much money for your care, just the housekeeping money. Yes, you cost a great deal of money to guard in prison, but not much to house, clothe, and feed."

"Hardly anything at all in the hole," Neal said starkly. "Do you think I've never been poor, Peter. I guess you missed that in my history."

"I only looked for relatives to whom you might go on the run," Peter admitted. "You don't have any."

"You are right," Neal said. "I have none. I have been in shit hole hotels. I have slept in worse places like over a vent to catch the heat escaping when I was on the run as a kid. Yes, I don't like being poor, dirty, and uncomfortable. Yes, I try to forget what that was like, but if you want to punish me, feel free."

Shaking his head, Peter said, "Neal, our conflict was part of the dance we were dancing before I caught you. But it's different now."

"I can't eat this," Neal said, abandoning the soup. "Take me to the hotel."

"I can't. I already changed the arrangements," Peter said. "Come on if you're sure you can't eat."

"Can't," Neal said, with a sad look at the soup.

"Queasy?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," Neal said.

Peter bought a couple packets of alka seltzer when he paid the bill. He had a bottle of water, crumpled one packet into the bottle and handed the fizzing mess to Neal.

"I have the files on Ghovat," Peter said. "If you feel well enough, you can take a look at them tomorrow. I sprang you on a Friday to give you sometime to get your head together for Monday when we really start work."

"I'm going to need some clothes," Neal said. "Everything I own is on my back."

"There's a thrift store on the corner near the hotel. You like thrift stores," Peter said, a jibe based on Neal's purchase of the jacket he used to con his way into the limo he borrowed at the airport. "I'll bring you there tomorrow. You can wear something of mine to sleep in tonight."

"Thanks, Peter," Neal said, not rising to the bait of Peter's remark about thrift stores.

OooOooO

Peter had his hand on Neal's back when they walked through the door. "Elizabeth, this is Neal Caffrey."

Holding out her hand, Elizabeth smiled warmly. Satchmo was sniffing at Neal and appeared to find him acceptable by the slow wag of his tail. Neal took Elizabeth's hand, shook it politely and said, "Elizabeth, thank you so much for being willing to have me in your home."

Peter nudged Neal the rest of the way in the door. Neal looked around a moment before kneeling to go face to face with Satchmo who acted liked Neal was his long lost best friend. That dog would hand a burglar the keys and the best china.

"Do you think I could take a real shower?" Neal asked, looking shy and nervous.

"Sure," Peter said.

Elizabeth stepped in before Peter could direct Neal to the bathroom. She had Neal's arm, led him upstairs. A moment later, Peter heard a soft laugh from El and a deeper one from Neal.

When El came back, Peter said, "El, don't get attached. He's not like Satchmo."

Satchmo was a long story, involving a drug dealer who had a cache of stolen art and who when arrested, left his Labrador puppy alone in his mansion. The guy had enough class to ask Peter to take the dog home. There hadn't been much choice. The shelter was closed. It was a long weekend. Satchmo stayed.

"If it doesn't work out with Ghovat, he goes back to prison," Peter said. "It'll be a wonder if he doesn't run."

"I understand," El said, "But Peter, he looks so lost."

"It's a con," Peter lied. "Listen, I'm going to find something for him to wear."

"Oh, I bought him some sleep pants, a robe and slippers, a package of briefs, some socks, and tee shirts," Elizabeth said. She put her hands on her hip and said, "It doesn't hurt you if I just show a little human kindness."

"Elizabeth..." Peter said. He surrendered. "All right, all right, I'm going to go check on him. Things were a little rough on him these last few weeks."

"Peter, how rough?" Elizabeth asked.

"He was in solitary," Peter answered. He did not want to share details both to spare Elizabeth and to protect some last dregs of Neal's privacy.

"Solitary?" Elizabeth was not going to leave it alone. She said, "He doesn't look like his pictures. He's too thin, so pale, he looks ... haunted."

"If he wants to talk to you," Peter said. "Please, El, this is bad enough, mixing my work and personal life. I should not be doing this. I don't understand why I am doing this."

Her soft body pressed against him. El was his refuge, his weakness and his strength. Peter felt better when she let go. He said, "Just don't get attached."

Right. His El who couldn't stop feeding the crazy squirrel who drove Satchmo nuts and had once chased Satchmo into the house. This was El, who always gave change to panhandlers, no matter how often Peter told her there were better uses for her charity. This was El who had a collection of friends that all used to be misfits until she trimmed their edges, fixed a few rough spots, and shoved them back in the world remade. His El.

OooOooO

The bathroom door was open and steam, fragrant with a spicy scent that smelled somewhat like El and somewhat like Caravan to India where El sometimes shopped. Peter said, "Neal, you do know the door is open?"

The shower curtain slid aside as the water stopped. Seal slick dark hair peeped out, blue eyes happier and cleared now gazed beneath. "Sorry, I couldn't shut it. I think I have claustrophobia now," Neal confessed.

"That's going to play hell with your career," Peter said, trying to make light of it.

"I don't think that's my big worry right now," Neal said. "Hand me a towel."

Peter had seen Neal unclothed before. He had hovered after the final arrest. Neal had escaped twice when Peter had him in custody and so, the last time, Peter would not let him out of his sight, not for a minute. When Peter had been trying not to look, he had seen that Neal had been lean, well muscled, sleek, and silken.

Now, there was still muscle, but Neal's bone structure was too delineated. Peter handed over two towels, one to wrap around the too thin body and the other for the hair which was already regaining its luster.

Toweling vigorously, Neal said, "I feel much better, Peter. I'm clean. The water was hot and there's so much of it!"

Everyday things that you took for granted. Hot showers, not shared with men who might turn on you. Choosing your own meals. Walking to a grocery store and filling a cart. If the felons that Peter arrested could have a taste of prison...

Peter sighed. All too often it was not the first time. It had been Neal's first experience and he didn't need details to know that it had been a horror for the sensitive, pleasure loving, overly thinking young man.

Turning to leave, Peter was stopped by Neal's voice. "Peter, don't leave. I'll be dressed in a minute."

Compliant, Peter leaned against the wall outside the door. He said, "I might have a lead on something with the ghost. If you think you can clear your head enough to read through what I have."

"Reading is probably going to be easier than sleeping," Neal replied. He came out, sleep pants and tee shirt showing through the unfastened robe that El had bought him in a shade of blue Peter was sure matched his eyes.

Peter kept the 'he cleans up well' out of his eyes. The 'he looks adorable' thought was locked deep in a vault, hopefully never to be seen.

"You have to try some of El's home made chicken soup," Peter said.

Wide eyed, Neal followed Peter downstairs to where El had a cheerfully decorated bowl on the table waiting. The soup smelled wonderful and Peter knew how good it was. There was glass with ginger ale on ice, a sprig of mint bobbing on the side, and droplets sweating from the contrast of cool ice and warm room.

"Oh," Neal said. "That's wonderful."

Neal was not self conscious in his new night time wear. It all fit which Peter knew was the result of El sneaking peeks into Neal's files. He saved his scowl for when he really wanted to sleep on the couch.

Third time was the charm. The soup was going in and was going to stay in. Neal ate slowly, which was sensible. El took a warm and serve bread roll out of the oven and set it on a plate. Peter found the butter and a knife for him. With a don't notice this look at El, Peter tried Neal's forehead again. Neal stopped eating, leaned back against Peter, closing his eyes, lashes fluttering at Peter's touch. He was probably starved for decent food, but he was hungrier yet for gentle touch.

"You have a fever," Peter said.

"I felt sick for a while," Neal admitted. "I think. Had to tell. I was a little lost."

"And now you are a little found," El said, with a warning look at Peter. "Peter, take him to the guest room. He is worn out."

El had him trained to that tone before the honeymoon was over. It only worked in person, but it worked perfectly in that respect. The bed in the guest room never looked so good. Peter mumbled something about going broke as he perused the fresh sheets, but he thought it was almost worth it as Neal shed robe and slippers, sliding between the sheets, running his hand over the softness and uttering a sound Peter could only describe as a purr.

As soon as Neal was down, he tried to get up again and said, "I forgot my homework downstairs."

"It can wait," Peter said magnanimously.

"No, it would be better to have it up here, in case I wake up," Neal said.

Peter had much experience in work as a drug. He said, "I'll get it. Try to sleep first."

Bringing back all the file copies on Ghovat, Peter lay them down on the dresser.

"Leave the light on," Neal said. "And the door open," he added.

"Okay," Peter said.

Later, around midnight, Peter saw that Neal was in bed, but with open files all around him, reading, thinking. He nodded, thinking that when they went back to work, he would not give Neal any slack. He would treat him as the competent man he was even as he waited for triggers that might send Neal crashing. It was the right thing to do and Neal's best chance at staying out of prison

The end


End file.
